


three shots of vodka, two martinis, and some wine

by iceprinceofbelair



Category: The Fall (TV 2013), The X-Files
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, F/F, Feminism, First Meeting, Flirting, London, Minor Violence, give scully a day off, honestly pls let her have a proper vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 05:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15332919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/iceprinceofbelair
Summary: Dana Scully is on vacation in London and meets Stella Gibson in a bar.





	three shots of vodka, two martinis, and some wine

Stella enjoys drinking alone; it gives her time to think. She’s always been a people-watcher. It’s in her nature to figure people out, to understand why they do what they do and, most of the time, how to catch them before they do it again. So she sits at the end of the bar in a London pub, watching people come and go.

It’s not a pub she would typically frequent - she prefers something a little more sophisticated personally - but it’s perfect for going unnoticed. Fancy bars always had too many businessmen who wanted to flirt and not nearly enough people of interest. She likes complexity. Businessmen, she has found, are the most boring people on the planet.

(Businesswomen, on the other hand, are on average excellent in bed.)

There’s a gaggle of underage girls in one booth, given away by their forced overconfidence. Stella understands the urge, though, and she’s not really interested in telling seventeen-year-olds to take their partying elsewhere. So she sips her whiskey and watches them, trying to deduce the hierarchy of their clique. She can tell they’re among the more popular girls in school - pretty and perfectly aware of it. A voice in her head tells her that she’s projecting but she reminds it that she was never popular; she was always too outspoken to fall in line.

There are a few stereotypical regulars dotted around the room - gatherings and smatterings of older men with grey hair and even greyer stubble. She wonders about them. She seeks out wedding rings and wonders how many more are married and not bothering to show it. She doesn’t wonder much, though. It’s just to pass the time.

Someone approaches the bar closeby. She doesn’t pay them any mind until her ears prick at the American twang and feminine lilt.

“Three shots of vodka, please,” says the petite, red-headed woman with an air of exhaustion about her that Stella recognises all too well.

If she were someone else, she might have said something along the lines of “long day at work?” and rested her chin in her hand in expectation of an answer. But she says nothing, watching out of the corner of her eye as the redhead downs her shots in quick succession and orders a martini before she sits down.

Stella takes in her clothing, recognising her pantsuit for what it is - something to defeminise her. So, she’s in a man’s job. But, really, who isn’t? Despite the proximity, Stella finds that she can read very little about this woman and is instantly intrigued. She likes complexity and she’s an absolute sucker for a challenge.

There’s a soft tinkle from her suit pocket and Stella savours the sight of the phone slipping delicately beneath her tendrils of red hair.

“Scully,” she says, and Stella recognises the clipped, professional greeting as a mirror of her own. A surname, then. Interesting. Then, “no, no, no, I’m on vacation. For real, this time.”

Busy, overworked. Potentially someone looking to let off a little steam above and beyond the booze.

“Who died now?” She asks wearily and Stella’s lips quirk into a surprised smile. She drops her gaze to her phone and pretends not to eavesdrop. “Mulder, I don’t think you know how big London is. I can’t even drive here. How do you expect me to…”

Stella risks a glance upward in time to witness a rather spectacular eye roll.

“I am on vacation,” she repeats, emphasising each syllable as if speaking to a small child. “Do you remember vacations, Mulder? Getting _away_ from the office, _avoiding_ work, just letting loose for a while?” A beat. “Oh, and when was your last vacation exactly?” Another beat. “No, Mulder, of _course_ that doesn’t count.”

Stella watches Scully impatiently shift her phone to her other ear, humming noncommittally at apparent lulls in her partner’s conversation. She takes a measured sip of her martini and checks the delicate wrist watch which peeks out from beneath the cuff of her blazer.

She sighs, apparently defeated, and Stells feels the conversation drawing to a close. She busies herself with ordering another whiskey as Scully says, “Alright, fine. I’ll look into it. But no promises. They have their own systems over here. I can’t just barge in and demand information.” A nod. “Okay, sure. Mulder, I’m gonna go now. Please get some sleep? And at least _try_ to be on time for Skinner in the morning?”

With a soft farewell, she hangs up and downs the rest of her martini with a ferocity which startles Stella momentarily.

“One more, please,” she says to the bartender who dutifully refills her glass.

Stella is subtle as she watches Scully’s fingers dance absently around the base of her glass, her expression betraying that she is lost in her mind. Eyes wandering, Stella notices a ladder running along the top of her right foot. It disappears into the leg of her trousers and Stella wants to see where it will lead her.

She seizes her chance.

“How are you enjoying London?” She asks, enjoying the unconcerned way in which Scully’s eyes slide up to meet her own. Her face, patterned with delicate freckles, crinkles warmly as she smiles.

“It’s certainly beautiful,” she muses while Stella takes a sip of her whiskey. “I’ve always wanted to visit but never seemed to find the time.”

“What brings you here now?” Stella wonders aloud.

Scully’s fingers tap out a rhythm on top of the bar. “I had a lot of vacation time saved up,” she says vaguely. The detective in Stella is dying to challenge her on it. She doesn’t. Scully smiles and offers her hand. “Scully. Dana.” She says, adding her forename almost as an afterthought.

Stella smirks and responds teasingly, “Gibson. Stella.”

The soft pink flush on Scully’s cheeks is entirely worth it. “Sorry,” she says with a shrug. “So few people call me Dana that sometimes even I forget.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Stella tells her honestly. “Feminine. Gentle. Like a flower.”

Scully looks bemused. “Perhaps that’s why I prefer Scully.”

Stella raises an eyebrow. “You don’t enjoy your own femininity?”

“I didn’t say that,” Scully says playfully. “It just...it’s like you said. It’s gentle. Too gentle for what I do.”

Stella observes her again, uncertain about what that might be exactly. From her conversation, she’s tempted to say that Scully works in a similar field to herself, perhaps law enforcement or some kind of related field. A pathologist, perhaps, like Reed.

“And what is that?” She asks around the rim of her glass.

“I’m an FBI agent,” she supplies with a knowing smile. “It doesn't really leave much room for Dana.”

The lack of surprise Stella feels with this admission is what makes her a little sad. Still, she keeps her voice curiously neutral as she asks, “You can’t be both?”

Scully considers this but sighs. “The FBI has always been a boys’ club. Sometimes it’s just easier to…” she gestures vaguely at her attire. Stella nods.

“It’s a man’s world,” she muses, almost to herself. Almost.

“Stella,” says Scully unexpectedly, and the sound of her name surprises her. “It suits you. Feminine and bold. It packs a punch.”

“So do I,” Stella smirks, polishing off the last of her whiskey.

Scully smiles. “Your accent is beautiful too. I didn’t realise being here would make me feel like such a redneck.”

Stella laughs softly and places her hand over Scully’s wrist, letting her thumb fall into a groove between her bones. Scully’s eyes rake her face with burning intensity and Stella keeps her chin up, aware that she’s being sized up, figured out. Assessed.

“What about you?” Scully asks, her voice approaching a whisper. “What do you do?”

Stella considers her purple silk blouse and black pencil skirt, tan tights and black high heels. She imagines her subtle eyeshadow, her mascara, her lipstick. She feels her blonde curls tumble over her shoulders. And she leans closer and whispers, “Guess.”

Taken aback, Scully gives a startled laugh before quickly beginning to drink in Stella’s appearance with a look of intense concentration.

“You’re clearly a woman in charge,” she says. “I’d say office or publishing job but…” She stops.

“But?” Stella presses.

Scully smirks. “You’re far too interesting for that. A psychologist, maybe?”

“Not quite,” Stella says. “But you made an admirable attempt. If I tell you we’re in the same profession, what would you say?”

“I’d say that’s perfect,” Scully breathes, her wrist twitching under Stella’s hand though she makes no move to detach herself. “I’m right about authority though, aren’t I? You’re high ranking. Non-uniformed. A detective.”

Stella smiles. “Detective Superintendent.”

Scully gives a low whistle. “Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson. That’s quite the mouthful.”

“Well, it doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like Agent Dana Scully…”

“Special Agent Dana Scully,” she corrects whimsically and Stella nods in amused acquiescence.

“ _Special_ Agent Dana Scully, of course,” Stella amends.

After a moment, as though uncertain of herself, Scully says, “M.D.” And then flushes lightly, like she thinks she’s taken things too far.

Impressed, Stella raises her eyebrows. “Doctor Dana Scully,” she says slowly. “I must confess, being in the presence of such a well-qualified and beautiful woman is enough to make a simple English girl swoon.”

“Ah,” says Scully with a knowing look. “But would it make _you_  swoon, detective?”

Stella pretends to consider this while she undoes a button on her blouse. “I suppose we’ll have to find out for ourselves.”

The moment might have been wonderful had Scully’s phone not started its insistent ringing when their lips were just inches apart. Scully closes her eyes and breathes out an apology as she digs around for her phone and checks the caller ID, rolling her eyes at the number.

“It’s my partner,” she says apologetically. “I’m sorry. I have to take this. Let me buy you another drink?”

Stella offers her a warm smile and orders two glasses of red wine as Scully slips away through the doors which lead towards the toilets, phone pressed to her ear.

There are more people in the bar now, Stella notices. She’d barely noticed them come in. Dana Scully had captivated her undivided attention. She finds herself willing the minutes away, swirling the wine around in the glass without really noticing she’s doing it. Stella Gibson, as a rule, does not fidget. But she finds herself restless. Antsy.

For the first time in many years, Stella has butterflies in her stomach.

Ten long minutes pass and Stella finds her restlessness growing and shifting until she has a feeling of dread tugging at her gut. There might have been a time when she’d have tuned this worry out but her years in the Met have honed her instincts. She never ignores her gut.

So she finds herself gathering her handbag and Scully’s briefcase in her arms and making her way downstairs towards the toilets with a glass of red wine in each hand. It’s quiet. The chatter grows quieter on the floors above her. As she draws to a halt outside the Ladies, she hears voices. A woman’s voice. American. Saying no.

She pushes the door open with her shoulder just in time to see Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. thrust the heel of her hand upwards, producing a rather satisfying crack when she breaks her potential rapist’s nose.

Stella hopes it hurts.

While he’s stumbling back in shock, Scully takes her wine and briefcase from Stella with shaky hands and they start upstairs. Stella can tell that they are both acutely aware of the anger that will follow the man’s surprise but, while she is ascending with practiced calm steadiness, Scully’s sensible heels click nervously as she jogs upstairs.

Stella hears the door of the bathroom slam open behind her. She takes her time. The man - the rapist, she corrects, because whether he got all the way to sex or not, he would have and that makes him just as guilty in her eyes - comes thundering upstairs and she positions herself in the middle of the narrow stairway as she ascends. She feels his hand grab her elbow to shove her aside and takes a well-aimed jab at his chest with it.

She won’t run. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

She reaches the top of the stairs without incident and finds Scully settling her bill at the bar. She catches her eye as the rapist finally emerges. His nose is bloodied and beginning to swell. Stella smirks.

Bastard, she thinks.

She takes a few long sips of her wine as she approaches Scully who looks light years away from the soft, feminine _Dana_ she is so frightened to embrace. But, at the same time, Stella sees the vulnerability in her like a neon sign. This isn’t anything new to her. She’s spoken to countless women who have been threatened, violated. Hell, isn’t this a mirror image of her run in with Jim in Belfast?

Every woman, she thinks to herself, speaks a secret language that men seem to miss, even when it’s spoken right in front of them. The looks that could mean the difference between life and death for a woman. Men are blind, she thinks. But she supposes that they aren’t really looking. Because they don’t have to. Rape is by no means a female-specific issue but the ever-present threat of rape, feeling the weight of responsibility to protect oneself from rape, seems to be almost exclusive present in women.

She can see it in Dana Scully. There is no doubt in Stella’s mind that the woman in front of her is a feminist. She is outspoken and headstrong and she’s making her way in a man’s job the best way she knows how - but she still carries the guilt, the shame, inside her. She wears it on her shoulders and in the sharp outline of her cheeks. Stella can almost hear her thinking. She can hear her asking herself why she allowed this to happen, why she went to the bathroom alone, why she wasn’t armed, why she took so long to fight him off, why she let this happen to her.

Stella Gibson is witnessing an intensely private, personal struggle which is somehow shared across half the population. And tears spring to her eyes unbidden. And she bites them down. Because even women like Stella Gibson are afraid to show weakness in front of powerful men.

Stella links arms with Scully, puts a hand on her bicep to keep her close. It isn’t protection, just reassurance. Dana Scully can look after herself.

The air outside is surprisingly pleasant but Stella still feels a chill run through her. They walk together in silence. Stella finds herself slightly taller only because of the height of her heels. On solid ground, they must be about the same height. Stella catches herself thinking about how precisely their bodies might fit together when Scully interrupts the silence.

“I wish they’d let me carry my gun,” she says flatly.

Stella is quiet for a moment and, when she does speak, it’s slow and careful. “When I was in Belfast recently for work, I was issued a weapon for the first time. I’d shot a gun before, but I’d never carried one. I’d never shot anyone.”

“And now?”

Stella says nothing.

Scully takes a shaking breath and lets out a sigh and Stella knows what she’s going to say before the words even leave her lips. Because women speak a secret language of codes and double meanings and Stella has heard it all before.

“I’m sorry for being so, well, overdramatic,” she says, giving herself a shake. “Nothing happened. It just threw me for a loop.”

Despite having reassured many women before that any sexual assault is “enough” to cause trauma, Stella finds herself oddly lost for words. Scully doesn’t want to hear that her pain, her fear, is valid. So Stella won’t tell her that.

“Where are you staying?” She says instead.

Scully looks dazed for a moment before she says, “Holiday Inn. Somewhere. Couple of tube stops away, I think.”

This is not what Stella does. She does not take drunk, foreign women home with her. She does not make it her responsibility to see every drunk girl home safe. She can’t. But Scully, beautiful, complex Dana Scully - she feels like a lifeline Stella wasn’t even aware she was seeking. Scully is a boat adrift at sea, in a foreign country with too much alcohol in her system and a bit of a scare under her belt, and, somehow, she’s exactly what Stella needs.

She’s spent so long seeking either total stability or throwaway nights that she’s only now realising that _this_ right here is what she needs. She doesn’t need a stable, steady relationship with a stable, steady person. She needs a reason to becomes more stable, more steady, more anchored.

But it’s more than that. Dana Scully is a contradiction. She’s strong and vulnerable, she’s confident and shy. Neither of them need an anchor. But, perhaps together, they can be the beginnings of a small fleet of lost, moorless boats following the current, drifting together instead of alone.

**Author's Note:**

> full confession, i haven't seen season 3 of the fall yet and i'm only on like season 6 of the x files but i'm gay and gillian anderson is wonderful as both of these characters so here they are!


End file.
